Fu Yanzong’s declaration about preparing to confess his feelings didn’t draw much attention—because no one believed it was serious.
After all, if someone openly discussed something outrageous right in front of you, you’d probably assume they were just cracking a humorous joke.
Talking about romance on a fake dating variety show was an utterly ridiculous and foolish thing to do, especially when it involved Fu Yanzong. Half the people on the street had seen his face, and the other half could stumble upon news about him just by scrolling through media reports.
The headlines claimed that Fu Yanzong had attended a race with some celebrity today, then checked into a hotel with a supermodel tomorrow. The stories were written with vivid detail, backed by on-site videos flashing with paparazzi lights. Aside from his fans, no one doubted their authenticity.
Fu Yanzong’s public appearances were always unpredictable, and he never discussed his private life in the open. Whenever cameras caught him, he wore that signature half-smile—neither hiding nor panicking, just standing there lazily, leaving everyone forever unsure whether this version of Fu Yanzong was real or fake.
Having risen to fame young, with a privileged family and striking looks, it seemed fate had bestowed all its best gifts upon him. In many people’s eyes, Fu Yanzong naturally came across as an arrogant playboy who lived it up and looked down on everyone.
Su Tang had always thought the same, which was why he’d so smugly committed all those stupid blunders. But truthfully, most people in the room shared Su Tang’s views—they were just smarter, more versed in social rules, and smart enough never to voice those judgments aloud.
Fu Yanzong knew this well, so he spoke lightly of it. Sure enough, moments later, the topic veered from the game of sentence-building to his various scandals.
One of the amateur male guests raised his hand and boldly asked, “Brother Fu, you really don’t need to worry about confessing. Last time I went to Xu Yingyu’s premiere, she said her ideal type is you!”
“Really? I actually thought Teacher Fu and Zhang Jiayin…”
Fu Yanzong politely feigned mild surprise, but in that instant, he was wondering who Xu Yingyu and Zhang Jiayin even were.
He had a vague impression of Xu Yingyu. She was probably an actress pushed by some investor for a collaboration. She’d debuted in one of his films as a likable supporting role—a brief white moonlight figure for the protagonist, whose death scene had wrung plenty of tears from audiences. She’d quickly amassed a huge fanbase and naturally branched out into her own acting career.
Of course, since she’d first gained traction from that on-screen pairing, she’d kept leaning into it afterward.
Xu Yingyu’s pairing marketing wasn’t as repulsive as Su Tang’s. In a way, it was even more sophisticated—not the forced, rumor-mongering kind of fan service, but simply promoting her open admiration for Fu Yanzong. Her straightforward attitude won over plenty of casual onlookers.
With so many people riding coattails, Fu Yanzong didn’t mind this level of it. Their agencies even bought each other mutually beneficial trending topics now and then, a polite back-and-forth.
Under the push of marketing, they became known as a pair with a great relationship, possibly even a secret romance. In reality, Fu Yanzong had to pause to even recall her face.
The entertainment industry was a magical place like that—the person you saw off-camera might not be any more real than the one on it. Fu Yanzong used to relish the thrill of blending truth and fiction, letting it help him forget himself. But after the thrill faded, what rushed in was a uncertainty about where to go next.
What lay beyond fame?
Would it still be Fu Yanzong?
Or just the “persona” named Fu Yanzong?
Could he keep loving this job for five years, ten, or even longer?
Fu Yanzong had no answers. Not a single version of him on camera was the real Fu Yanzong. Since he couldn’t show his true self, of course there wouldn’t be.
—Until one particular morning.
Before that day, Fu Yanzong had seen his relationship with Song Linyu as nothing more than that of a sugar daddy and his kept bird— no different from what others in the industry did.
Song Linyu was obedient and beautiful, often pitiable and adorable in equal measure. Fu Yanzong’s interest in him had grown steadily, but it never went beyond mere cuteness.
Cute and capable of love might look similar on paper, but the gulf between them was vast, like two distant riverbanks.
Fu Yanzong took care not to cross to the other side.
The night before last, they’d gotten a bit carried away. When they fell asleep, Song Linyu was still trembling faintly from the physical aftershocks. Fu Yanzong held his waist, soothingly kissing the back of his neck before pulling him close from behind in an embrace, cuddling him like a favorite plush toy. He rested quietly against Song Linyu’s neck.
The unbarred warmth of skin against skin made it easy to drift off. Fu Yanzong couldn’t pinpoint where Song Linyu got this strange sense of calm from, but whenever he wrapped him up tight, he always felt it.
Before meeting Song Linyu, the Frame-by-Frame Talk production team had interviewed Fu Yanzong. They’d asked which movie he liked most or had learned the most from.
Surprisingly, he didn’t name some cinematic classic. Instead, he picked a truly awful domestic ghost flick—the kind you’d only watch when bored out of your mind.
Everyone figured Fu Yanzong was joking again, or perhaps slyly mocking something they hadn’t caught. Either way, people loved the young movie emperor’s sharp edges and eagerly reported on them. The next day, posts dissected every word, spawning countless hot threads.
In truth, Fu Yanzong had meant it. He really did like that trashy film.
For many nights back then, he’d return to his hotel from set unable to sleep deeply. That was during his early days of being torn between self and role.
Therapy and meds would mess with his daytime performances, so those big happy-ending horror flicks became his go-to for clearing his mind and lulling himself to sleep.
But after Song Linyu entered his life, that insomnia vanished. Fu Yanzong wasn’t the fragile type—he’d just…
Temporarily lost his anchor.
Parents, family, friends—most people had something in the world they cherished, helping them distinguish false from real. No matter how much they loved a movie or game, they wouldn’t lose themselves in it to the point of derailing their lives.
For Fu Yanzong back then, though, the anchors in other worlds felt more real.
He had no one worth clinging to in his own life. The intense loves and hatreds of his characters overshadowed his own, dictating his emotions.
So Song Linyu had become a fine counterweight for him. Whenever Fu Yanzong needed to tip the scales toward himself, Song Linyu appeared.
A counterweight could be picked up or set down, replaced if it rusted someday. It wasn’t anything crucial.
…That’s what Fu Yanzong had thought.
/
The sky hadn’t fully lightened when Song Linyu woke. Fu Yanzong had held him all night. The moment his eyes opened, their heartbeats still resonated in their chests, breaths mingling so closely he couldn’t tell whose was hotter.
The warmth from their pressed skin was soothing, soft enough to tempt him back to sleep. Song Linyu carefully turned over, tilting his head up slightly. His gaze climbed from Fu Yanzong’s prominent Adam’s apple, tracing along his pale jaw to linger on lips still flushed with color, before finally meeting those closed eyes.
In such quiet sleep, his eyes resembled folded swallowtails.
Song Linyu should have gotten up then, to fulfill an assistant’s duty of making breakfast… Though Fu Yanzong had never demanded it, Ren Haoran had once patted his chest and assured Song Linyu that what made his people so captivating to others was precisely these unnoticed little details.
So Song Linyu had started mimicking them, filling in those touches even if he had no clue what “normal” happy details looked like in everyday life.
…If Song Linyu had known, he would have realized nothing came closer to happiness than this moment.
A moment later, he slowly climbed out of bed, his movements rustling softly as he tried not to wake Fu Yanzong.
What Song Linyu didn’t know was that Fu Yanzong had already stirred from his dream. Constantly exposed to gazes and lenses, he was acutely sensitive to Song Linyu’s sounds and lingering stares.
But Fu Yanzong preferred savoring this comfortable sleep, so he shamelessly kept his eyes shut and stayed in bed, saying nothing.
Deprived of sight, his hearing sharpened. He caught Song Linyu pausing mid-dressing, hesitating for a beat before quietly shifting back toward him.
A shadow fell over Fu Yanzong’s face. Before he could wonder what Song Linyu intended, a soft press of lips met his own.
It barely qualified as a kiss—just like a small animal nuzzling another it liked, a fleeting touch of lips without even a rub. It shyly pulled away.
For some reason, Fu Yanzong felt like laughing.
Not in mockery, or that lazy half-smile he used to brush off unwanted attention.
This was genuine delight.
But Film Emperor Fu’s impeccable expression control gave nothing away. Truth be told, he was curious what Song Linyu would do next, so he did nothing at all.
Song Linyu hadn’t expected to kiss him either.
He stood there stunned for a moment before realizing that his palms were slick with sweat from that barely-there brush of lips.
As if it were something to be embarrassed about.
And yet they’d done far more scandalous things, countless times.
After calming himself down, Song Linyu managed to rationalize it: I only did it because Fu Yanzong is so handsome. I’ve liked this face since we were kids. That’s the only reason I sneaked that kiss—nothing more.
With that thought, he instinctively reached out, tugging the soft down comforter higher up Fu Yanzong’s arm as if it were second nature. He pulled it all the way up to the man’s chin like he was wrapping a silkworm cocoon, tucking him in tight with a mischievous glint.
Otherwise, he’ll catch a cold.
Song Linyu told himself that, finding yet another convenient excuse as naturally as breathing.
I’m just doing it so he doesn’t get sick. Taking care of a patient is such a hassle.
Satisfied with that line of reasoning after mulling it over, Song Linyu finally slipped out of bed and grabbed his phone from the nightstand.
Normally, he would head straight to the bathroom to freshen up, then hit the kitchen to make breakfast as planned. But whether he hadn’t gotten his fill or simply couldn’t resist, he found himself glancing back at Fu Yanzong on impulse.
That one look rooted him to the spot.
It was just another ordinary morning, like so many before. But to Song Linyu, every such day was one less in a finite supply.
He’d never had days like this before, and in the future…
Would there even be a future?
Song Linyu stood frozen in place, his fingertips twitching at the thought as if burned by something invisible. They curled inward sharply, his knuckles clenching and unclenching unconsciously.
He unlocked his phone, not even sure what emotion drove him to open the camera.
In the viewfinder, Fu Yanzong’s dark hair fanned across the pillow, a few unruly strands draping over his cheek. Half his profile was obscured by the pristine white comforter, his thick lashes casting faint shadows beneath his closed eyes.
Song Linyu let out a soft chuckle, unable to stop himself from tapping the shutter. He made no sound at all.
He just wanted to capture this moment—and the next instant, Fu Yanzong’s eyes snapped open as if he’d sensed it. His left hand shot up with surprising force, seizing Song Linyu’s wrist and yanking him back down onto the bed.
Fu Yanzong propped himself up, looming over him with an appraising stare.
The serene, almost gentle expression that had softened his features vanished in an instant, replaced by a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“…What are you taking pictures of, hmm?”
The mole at the corner of Fu Yanzong’s eye curved upward as that familiar, deceptively placid smile returned—excessively mild, almost coaxing.
But Song Linyu caught the faint undercurrents: distance, wariness, displeasure… even disappointment?
He opened his mouth to explain, but Fu Yanzong had already snatched the phone from his hand. With a swipe, the lock screen opened. Fu Yanzong tapped at the keyboard with one hand while pinching Song Linyu’s chin with the other, drawling lazily, “Unlock it yourself, or give me the password?”
Song Linyu stared at him for a long moment, his throat bobbing as he finally recited a string of numbers.
991224.
Fu Yanzong’s birthday.
Fu Yanzong paused briefly, then experimentally keyed in the code. The screen unlocked with a soft click.
He shot Song Linyu an inscrutable look before turning his attention back to the display.
Sure enough, it was a photo of him.
But not some underhanded sasaeng shot or a calculated assistant’s candid meant for blackmail. Not even one of those scandalous bed photos that sometimes leaked in the industry to extort a sugar daddy. Song Linyu’s snap was casual at best—the image showed Fu Yanzong simply nestled with his chin tucked into the blanket, a tuft of messy hair sticking up from the top. Utterly ordinary.
Nothing more.
Fu Yanzong even realized that he hadn’t been feigning sleep with a blank face after all; the photo caught the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth—one the photographer hadn’t noticed, and the “sleeping” subject hadn’t either.
An inevitable silence fell. The next moment, Song Linyu tugged at the hem of his shirt and said, with utmost sincerity, “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just… couldn’t help myself.”
Just… too fond of you to hold back.
Song Linyu glossed over that last part.
For some reason, even though this misunderstanding could derail his plans, he found himself tongue-tied. The easy “I like you” from their first meeting now stuck in his throat.
Song Linyu squeezed his eyes shut.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed—maybe just seconds—when the pressure on his wrist suddenly lifted. A warm, soft fingertip trailed gently across his cheek, making his long lashes quiver.
In that trembling instant, he felt the lightest touch against his lips. Delicate as a drizzle of rain, there one moment and gone the next—he couldn’t tell if it came from a fingertip or those lips.
Song Linyu jerked his eyes open, but all he caught was the edge of the white comforter flashing by. He rolled over to look and saw Fu Yanzong lying flat again, one hand draped lazily over his eyes, hiding most of his face and expression.
“I…” Song Linyu hesitated before starting, “I’ll delete it right—”
“No need.”
Fu Yanzong kept his eyes closed, murmuring softly, “Take the photo. It’s fine now.”
Song Linyu fell silent, at a loss for words. After a beat, he slipped quietly out of the room and eased the door shut behind him.
Fu Yanzong lowered his hand, gazing up at the blank white ceiling in quiet contemplation.
In that moment, one realization struck him.
—In Song Linyu’s lens, he was real.
To Fu Yanzong, Song Linyu had surpassed the mere weight of a counterweight.
And the far shore he’d always avoided… he’d already reached it long ago.
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